


Them Ghosts

by lettersandsodas



Category: The Wire
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersandsodas/pseuds/lettersandsodas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kimmy and Tosha's lives from ages 15-16 up through what we see of them on the show. Contains spoilers for the canon through season 3, but mostly pertaining to Kimmy and Tosha's fates. There are also mentions of violence, drugs, sex, etc. Basically, it's what you'd expect from the fandom, which is a pretty intimidating one to write in. I hope I got this kind of right, because I really loved these characters, minor though they might have been to the canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Them Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> The last third of this overlaps with the show and contains some scenes/dialogue from the episodes. These are not mine--they belong to HBO, David Simon, Ed Burns, etc. Kimmy and Tosha (aka the stick-up couple who join Omar's crew) only ever had about fifteen minutes of screen-time, so all their scenes from the time line covered by this fic are [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zvImk-bR22s) and [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oj7gLCr5VdU). The title and lyrics included at the beginning of the fic are from Deer Tick's ["Baltimore Blues, No. 1](http://www.last.fm/music/Deer+Tick/_/Baltimore+Blues+No.+1)."

_No doubt, I'd sell you all out  
For a pocket full of silver and gold.  
Way back when, when they made me one of them  
Don't you know they're gonna save my soul? _

  


 

"All in the game." -West Baltimore, traditional

  


  
_  
**February '95: 1600 Block Gilmor St., Baltimore, Maryland**   
_

She remembers how cold it is out when she leaves the corner store, carrying the bag around her wrist so she can shove both hands in her coat pockets. When she gets back up the block—walking careful because there's still ice on the ground—she grins and throws the bag to Tosha, who huffs in disbelief but smiles anyway. She doesn't bother to scoot over as Kimmy moves to sit next to her on the stoop, just shakes her head as she works the plastic wrapper off the cigarette pack, tosses it on the ground.

“Can't believe that fake worked. Picture don't look anything like you,” she says, and Kimmy scoffs.

“Please, you think he even asked for ID?” She smirks as she sticks her chest out, pushes her tits together with her arms. “Pair like these? Shit, he _wanted_ me to be eighteen.”

“Arrogant motherfucker,” Tosha accuses with a laugh. She lights a cigarette and passes it to Kimmy before lighting another for herself, and they take long drags and watch as their breath and the smoke drift up a long way in the cold air.

“Hey,” Kimmy says finally, and nods over at the group of boys who seem to have set up shop over on the corner near Baker. “Aint they Pook's crew?”

Tosha just nods, stubs her cigarette out on the white marble.

“The hell they doing all the way out here?” she asks, and watches as a boy she's seen around the courtyard before takes money from a fiend and motions him around the corner. “Never seen them peddling this side of Stricker.”

“Don't know. Third day in a row they been here, though.”

“And Shorty aint all over that?”

Tosha turns, shoots her an odd look. “You didn't hear? Shorty went downtown a week ago.”

“Serious?” Kimmy asks, and turns to look at Tosha with eyebrows raised. She just shakes her head when Tosha nods, and looks back over at the corner. “Still, they're asking for trouble.”

Tosha rolls her eyes, asks, amused, “Girl, you wanna go kick 'em off that corner yourself or something?”

Kimmy's inhale is stifled by laughter, and she coughs as she flicks the butt into the street. "Nah."

\---

 _  
**April '95**   
_

Kimmy pulls at the board covering the second-floor window of the row house, pries it off and rests it against the wall. It's warmer now, but the chill isn't entirely gone from the air, and she pulls her jacket tighter around herself. She leans on the frame and blows a steady stream of smoke out, surveys the street below.

“New crew chief they brought in is sloppy,” Tosha says from behind her, and she glances over her shoulder. Tosha's lounging on an old mattress, flipping through a copy of _Cosmo_.

“Wouldn't be surprised if you got the bug from that mattress,” Kimmy deadpans, and then cringes because who the hell knows how many junkies and have fucked on that thing, not to mention pissed. She'd rather not think about it, so she gestures to the magazine. “The hell you reading that for?”

Tosha ignores the question, just flips another page and laughs. “Listen to this: 'How to Get His Attention.' Says you gotta walk from the hips. Put a little swish into your step.”

“Fuck, it say you gotta be warm and breathing, too?” she asks, rolls her eyes because, really, people pay for this stuff. “Yo, where'd you even get that, anyway?”

“Found it down in one of the alleys,” Tosha says, shrugging. “Somebody dumped a whole stack of magazines and porno back there.”

“Porno?” Kimmy repeats incredulously, and turns to stare at her. “Damn, what's wrong with you? Why didn't you grab some of that instead?”

Tosha balks, glares from over the top of the magazine. “Girl, you sick. What I'm gonna do with a bunch of titty mags and pussy shots?”

Kimmy didn't mean it like that, not at all, but she feels her face grow hot anyway and turns back to the window, too quick because all of a sudden she doesn't feel right looking at Tosha. “What you think? Sell them. Make some decent money off those things."

It comes out awkward, and she takes another drag, thinks maybe she can feel Tosha's eyes on her. She changes the subject. “You said they sloppy?”

“Yeah,” Tosha says, and Kimmy can hear her rise and walk over. Tosha leans on the frame next to her, so close their shoulders are touching, and points to an older boy in a black hoodie and white sneakers. “See him? Watch where he goes for the stash when the yo in charge of the count signals.”

Kimmy watches as the boy jogs a few feet over to the stoop, pulls a paper bag out from a gap in the side of the steps, grabs two vials and trots back. Kimmy smiles, “Shit, they keep it under the porch...”

“But they stand over on the corner, and they face out towards the street,” Tosha finishes.

Kimmy smirks as Tosha continues, “And that ain't all. After lunch rush clears, they send the runner to the corner store, and while he's getting the food, the crew chief sits over on the other porch round the way to check the count.”

“Fuck me. How the hell did you figure all that out?”

Tosha rolls her eyes. “What the fuck you think I do when _your ass_ don't wake up until 1 in the damn afternoon half the time?”

Kimmy smirks. “So you telling me they only leave one man on the stash?”

Tosha nods, and Kimmy shakes her head. “Some weak ass shit right there.”

\---

 _  
**A Week Later**   
_

She waits at the end of the block, watches as Tosha struts over to the corner in her low cut tank and the jeans they bought two days ago over in Mondawmin—the dark ones that hug her ass and hips. Kimmy smirks; boy don't stand a chance.

Kimmy can't see everything perfectly even though she's coming up on them, but she doesn't have to. She knows what's going on: Tosha's smiles at the boy, lowers her lashes and puts a little swish into her step. He smiles back, then scrambles to help when her bag slips from her shoulder and sends her lipstick and mascara and whatnot spilling onto the sidewalk.

Kimmy waits until she sees that Tosha and the boy have made eye contact, then leans down and swipes a handful of vials from the stash bag so quickly and smoothly that she barely breaks her step. She just keeps walking, past Tosha and the boy, round the corner, and into the alley across the way. Her heart hammers in her ears the entire time, and she has to tell herself to keep her pace even. She rushes it, they'll know something's up.

Tosha walks an extra block, just as they planned, and then loops back to meet her in the alley.

“You get them?” she asks, and Kimmy grins as she holds up a handful of vials.

Tosha practically squeals as she moves in, throws an arm around Kimmy and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Come on,” she says, and pulls back to start down the alley. “We gotta get out of here before they notice.”

Kimmy stays motionless for a long moment. Then, she tucks the vials into her cargo pocket and takes off after Tosha, shards of glass crunching beneath her feet.

\---  
 **  
 _Winter, '97_**

Kimmy bounces the ball off the side of one of the rowhouses, takes a step back to give Tosha the room she needs to catch it. It's a silly game, but part of her likes the rhythm of it, the repetition. It's oddly relaxing.

“Ain't seen you with anyone lately,” Tosha comments as she throws the ball back. Kimmy's gloves almost make her fumble it, but she manages to keep a hold.

She quirks her eyebrows even though her gaze never moves from the wall. “You not counting yourself?”

She doesn't see Tosha roll her eyes, but she she can hear it in her voice. “Girl, don't act stupid. I meant a guy,” she tells her as she makes an easy catch.

Kimmy doesn't say anything for a moment, just takes a quick step to her left as the ball ricochets wide. Then, she shrugs, tries to sound nonchalant when she says, “Just ain't felt like it, I guess.”

She throws again, and adds after a beat, “Ain't seen you going out much either.”

“Mm,” Tosha agrees, and the ball bounces oddly off the uneven surface of the bricks, veers far enough left that Kimmy can't get over in time to catch it.

\---

 _  
**Spring, '97**   
_

She takes the Light Rail to visit Tosha at Lexington Market on her lunch break, even though she still doesn't understand why Tosha bothers with having the job anyway—not when there are corner stores that'll pay for a day's work in cash and plenty of little cons that bring them far more than $5.15 an hour for their troubles. Plus, the polo shirts are fucking _ugly_.

But last time she'd asked Tosha why she didn't just quit, she'd just glared and said, “And where'm I supposed to tell my momma the money comes from, huh?”

Kimmy can't really argue with that, although Tosha is nothing if not a good liar.

She climbs the stairs, spots Tosha quickly enough in the seating area and smiles as she starts over. It isn't until she's almost to the table that the crowd clears enough for her to she realize that Tosha's not alone.

If the surprise shows on her face, Tosha doesn't notice it, just returns her smile and tips her head toward the man sitting next to her, who gives a little wave. “You remember Jamal.”

Kimmy bites her bottom lip, considers. She knows just about everyone and it doesn't take long at all to pin him down. “Poe homes, right?”

He nods like he's impressed, and she sits down, notices the table is bare. “No food yet?”

“Waiting for you, girl,” Tosha tells her, eyebrows raised, and starts to get up.

Jamal stops her with a hand on her shoulder. It strikes Kimmy as a casual gesture, familiar, and she can't help but look over at Tosha, notice the way her lips quirk into a small smile. “I got it,” he tells her. “Sweet tea?”

“Nah. Half-and-half this time.” Kimmy sees Tosha's smile widen a little even as her own brain catches on the _this time_.

Jamal looks over at her. “And you?”

“Nah,” Kimmy says, and pushes away from the table—recoils from it, really—before she even realizes what she's doing.

“Can't stay,” she adds quickly. “Managed to pick up a few deliveries this afternoon after all. Just didn't want to leave y'all hangin'.”

Tosha frowns at her, opens her mouth like she's going to call bullshit, but Kimmy ignores it. She flashes what she's sure is a tense smile at Jamal as she grabs her bag. “Later.”

He nods, and she bounds down the stairs before Tosha can say anything, practically pushing through the throngs of people to get out faster.

\---

She stares out the window of the Light Rail train for a long time, wondering what the fuck that was back there. It's not like she's never seen Tosha with someone before. There was Little J from Druid Hill a couple years ago and Tyler from Forest Park some months back. But that shit was just messing around, and, anyway, Tosha had always _told_ her.

She passes her stop because—well, she doesn't know, she just doesn't feel like heading back just yet.

She's all the way in fucking Hunt Valley by the time she snaps out of it, and even then it's only because it's the end of the line.

\---

The next day, they're splitting a sub and staking out a another gang from a nook in the alley when Tosha finally asks. “Girl, what the hell was up with you yesterday?”

Kimmy doesn't look at her, just keeps her eyes fixed on the deal that's going down on the corner. “I told you. I caught a shift.”

“Bullshit,” Tosha balks, and pushes at her shoulder, and this time Kimmy does glare at her.

“What?”

Tosha crosses her arms. “You caught a shift, then why'd I have to pay for the sub?”

Kimmy tries to come up with something, anything, but then just huffs, rolls her eyes, resigned. “The fuck you want me to say?”

“I told you,” Tosha says. “I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on with you.”

Kimmy slumps against the wall, sullen as anything, and says nothing. Tosha just stares at her.

“You jealous?” she asks, finally. “That it?”

“No,” Kimmy says. It comes out a little too forceful, a bad lie coming from a good liar, and they both know it.

Tosha huffs but drops it, goes back to watching the corner.

\---

That night, lying on her mattress, Kimmy slides her hand down her shorts and thinks about Daryll from down the road. Once, when they were a couple years younger he'd offered her a swig of his 40 (who knows how he got it). She made some joke about being too much of a _discerning motherfucker_ for that, and he'd just laughed. She'd sat down then, spent the better part of an hour with him on the stoop, just talking and passing the bottle in a brown paper bag. He seemed nice enough. Was kind of funny himself, even. And god knows he's grown well since then—good looking man, and decent style to boot. She's seen the way he looks at her sometimes when she passes him on the block.

She prods herself to conjure up flashes of him—his eyes, always intense but kind of soft when he laughed, his arms—and is relieved when it _works_ for her. She moves her hand quicker, with more focus, and bites her lip to prevent the sounds she can't quite keep in from drifting through walls that aren't much more than a layer of brick with drywall slapped over it.

She's trying not to let her mind drift, trying to keep focused, but it gets more difficult. Sometimes, her mind brings up images of acts with indistinct actors, sometimes just snippets. And sometimes, she can't help but flash to a smile she's seen a thousand times, a pair of tight, dark wash jeans being worked down over hips.

Her mind is working fast enough that she's not sure what she's thinking about when she finally comes. Maybe it's a good thing.

She drifts off the sound of sirens in the distance.

\---

The next day, she makes sure to walk past Daryll's stoop slow enough that he notices. She doesn't even have to do much of anything. Just flashes a smile and waves hello to him, and next thing she knows, they've got dinner on Friday night.  
\---

 _  
**Summer, '97**   
_

“Yo, you free this Thursday?” Kimmy asks as they're boarding the light rail after Tosha's shift.

“Get off at six. Why?”

Kimmy hesitates for a moment, feels her palm sweat against the metal bar she's holding onto for balance. “You wanna have dinner with me and Daryll?”

Tosha turns to look at her, surprised. “Daryll from down the road?” She frowns when Kimmy makes a short noise of assent, and doesn't answer.

“You could bring Jamal,” Kimmy suggests after a long moment, and hopes it comes off like the peace offering it's meant to be.

No such luck: “I ain't seen him in a couple weeks.”

“Mm,” she says, and then there's a distinctly uncomfortable silence, the kind that they haven't really had in a decade of knowing each other.

“I guess I could bring Marcus,” Tosha concedes, finally, and Kimmy agrees with not a small degree of relief.

They don't talk the rest of the way home.

\---

 **  
_Thursday_   
**

They end up at some Caribbean place on Charles. It's nothing fancy, but the jerk chicken is good enough and the plantains aren't soggy.

Daryll flirts with her relentlessly as they eat, and Marcus just grins and tries to bond with him over the Ravens' prospects going into the new season. Tosha, on the other hand, says nothing, just looks between her food and Kimmy and Daryll with a sort of scowl until midway through the meal, when Daryll notices a small, stray sliver of chicken stuck to the corner of Kimmy's mouth. Tosha gets up abruptly when he laughs and leans in to kiss it off, just tosses her napkin on the table and excuses herself to the restroom in a tone that doesn't even come _close_ to hiding the fact that she's upset. Kimmy rolls her eyes and shrugs when Daryll and Marcus give her twin _the fuck?_ looks.

“I guess I should go see what's up,” she says resignedly after a moment, and follows Tosha to the back of the restaurant. The bathroom is single-occupancy, as it turns out, and Tosha doesn't answer when she knocks. She sighs, frustrated, and knocks again, persistently, constantly, until Tosha finally opens the door.

“Shit, you are such a fucking child, you know that?” Tosha says, and Kimmy shoots her a disbelieving look as Tosha steps aside to let her in.

“ _I'm_ a child? Girl, look in the mirror. You're the one one who stormed off in the middle of the damn meal.” She locks the door and leans up against the sink, arms crossed. “You wanna tell me what the fuck is the matter?”

Tosha shrugs, snaps back, “Why don't you tell me. I'm not the one who didn't even bother to mention to her _closest fucking friend_ that I was seeing someone.”

“The hell you ain't,” Kimmy replies, snorting. She can't decide whether to laugh or throttle Tosha because, _really_? “I know you are not even going to go there with that bullshit. What about you and Jamal? You forget about that?”

Tosha has the nerve to look taken aback “Jamal? Shit, that was just--” she waves her arm. “It was nothing, ok? Just messing around.”

“Really? Didn't seem like messing around to me.” She lowers her voice, says mockingly, “Sweet tea this time, baby?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tosha tells her, and takes a step forward that Kimmy guesses is intended to look menacing. Maybe it would, if she didn't outweigh Tosha by about twenty-pounds. “What the fuck do you care for, huh?”

“What the fuck do _I_ care?” Kimmy asks, angry and disbelieving. “What the fuck do you care? You the one who brought it up. And, since we're putting it all out there and whatnot, you the one been begging off doing anything more than staking out the next con for the past two weeks. You forget that, too?”

Tosha opens her mouth, looks like she's going to say something nasty back, but then just closes it again and shoots Kimmy a look that's completely unfamiliar. Kimmy's first thought is that it's angry, and she flinches instinctually when she sees Tosha bring her hands up. But she knows Tosha well enough to see the subtler components of the look as well—jealously, frustration, maybe even a little _hurt_ —and it makes more sense, then, why instead of hitting her or grabbing her hard by the hair, Tosha's hands settle on the sides of her face, pull her forward until their lips are pressed together hard.

It doesn't make sense _immediately_ , though, so Kimmy follows her first instinct. She fumbles at Tosha's shoulders, tries to push at them. But the shove is weaker than she'd like, and she has to repeat it before Tosha finally stumbles back.

“What the fuck was that?” she asks, strangely breathless when she finally manages to pry Tosha away. It comes out sounding more surprised than horrified, and Tosha must hear that because her eyes drift closed and she barely has time to murmur a husky _shut up_ as she shrugs out of Kimmy's grasp.

This time her lips are gentler, slower, and Kimmy feels herself start to relax—gradually, a little at a time. The part of her brain that's alert—always alert for trouble—tells her that she shouldn't, that she should be freaking the fuck out about this, and it's probably the truth. But she's not. She's not and she doesn't know why other than the fact that just because she's never actually let herself think it, doesn't mean there wasn't some dim awareness that this is where this whole thing was headed, has been heading all along.

The soft, wet sounds her lips make moving against Tosha's are loud in such a small room, and Kimmy gets lost in it, loses her sense of time until Tosha makes this little approving sound against her mouth. Kimmy finds that she needs to stop, then, needs to breathe to get rid of the tight feeling in her chest.

When she pulls back, finally, everything feels weirdly hazy. Tosha looks a little guilty and a lot flushed, because of embarrassment or... something, and they just stare at each other for a few seconds before Kimmy can't quite contain a surprised little laugh. “Girl, you know how fucking awkward you just made the rest of this dinner?”

“Shit,” Tosha agrees, and laughs too, a short, amused little bark that echoes off the tiles.

\---

They don't talk about it, not really. But then, most things haven't changed: Kimmy still goes to Lexington Market at lunch (just does her hair up a little nicer sometimes), still picks Tosha up after work (just doesn't move her hand away abruptly if it brushes against Tosha's on the support pole), and still stakes out the corners (just feels slight twinges of jealousy when the con requires flirtation, kisses Tosha hard and possessive when they meet in the alley after).

For a long time, they don't do much more than that. Kimmy needs time to adjust anyway, to undo years of not letting herself notice the way her mouth goes dry when Tosha laughs easily, the way she feels it like a jolt when their fingers brush as they're passing a smoke back and forth. And, anyway, it's not like they have someplace they can go—Tosha lives with her momma, Kimmy stays on a rotating cast of friends' couches, and an abandoned just wouldn't feel right.

It isn't until Tosha's family goes to a barbecue one night in mid-August--Tosha begs off, says she has cramps—that they finally get the house to themselves, and it isn't long before all the pent-up tension of the past months (years) comes out in too-hard kisses and overeager fumbling with clothing.

Kimmy winds up on top when they finally stumble over to the bed and immediately busies herself with shoving Tosha's tank up over her stomach, reaching behind her for the clasp on her bra. Tosha moans, arches up to give her room to undo it, and Kimmy does, nearly scratches her in her haste to work the straps down her arm.

Kimmy feels the hand that's been stroking at the back of her head still, then, and she glances up to find Tosha looking at her seriously, biting her lip.

“Hey,” Tosha tells her after a moment, and moves her hand down to stroke her cheek. “Slow down, ok? We don't have to... I mean. I don't want to make it be like that, you know?”

Kimmy thinks back to all the times she's done this before—how it was all speed and _want_ and no finesse—and smiles softly. “Yeah,” she says, and leans up to kiss Tosha again, gentle and achingly slow.

She does know, and maybe that says enough.

\---

 _  
**Fall, 1998**   
_

Kimmy wakes to the morning sunlight beating against her eyelids. She blinks until the redness clears and then mutters a startled _shit_ when she sees where she is. She rolls over quickly, only to be met with the sight of Tosha, fully dressed and standing by the bed, smirking at her.

“I know, right?”

Kimmy rolls her eyes, works her jaw a little to get some moisture in her mouth. “Can't believe I fell asleep here. Why didn't you wake my ass up?”

“Too late,” Tosha tells her with a shrug. “My mom was already awake.”

“Besides,” she adds, voice taking on a hint of mocking, “You just looked so damn _peaceful_ with your top all hangin' off one arm like that.”

Kimmy groans, buries her face in the pillow and flips Tosha the bird.

“Should be all right, though,” Tosha continues, ignoring her. “She's getting ready, and, anyway, she won't come in if she thinks I'm dressing.”

Kimmy lifts her head again, watches as Tosha, wearing her best slacks, flits about the room until she finds the necklace she's looking for under a pile of their clothes on the floor. She grins. “Don't know, girl. You keep bending over in those pants and your momma's gonna be up here for sure to see why you screaming so damn loud.”

Tosha rolls her eyes, just sits on the edge of the bed and holds the necklace out wordlessly. Kimmy sits up to fasten it, and asks, “Why you all dressed up at this hour, anyway?”

Tosha turns to glare at her. “Damn, how drunk did you get last night? It's Sunday. You know Sunday's for family.”

Kimmy frowns, and Tosha seems to notice about the same time she does how harsh it comes off sounding. She presses a kiss to Kimmy's forehead, mutters an apology that's followed by, “Whatever, your ass is lucky to miss it, anyway. Gotta go to church.”

Kimmy's face contorts into an exaggerated mask of disdain, and they both laugh as Tosha pulls on her jacket. “Just let yourself out when we leave, ok?”

\---

 _  
**Spring, 1999**   
_

Kimmy doesn't remember exactly when she first got the gun—a little snubnose revolver that conceals easy enough in a coat pocket and doesn't jam up—but it was early on, when they were just getting started on jobs. She's been carrying it for at least a couple of years, then, and she's never so much as flashed it before now.

The job starts well enough. She and Tosha walk over to the boys on the corner (Ronnie's crew, young-looking fellas) and ask them if they've got a light. The taller of the two reaches into his coat, is digging around for his Bic when the other one's eyes narrow.

“I know you,” he says, his voice low. He sounds uncertain at first but grows more insistent when Tosha's eyes widen just a hint, confirm his suspicions. “Shit, Ty, they the ones Louis and me saw around when all those vials disappeared on Stricker. They the ones been stealin--”

Kimmy's been fingering the gun the whole time, has it out and pointed in his face before he can even finish the sentence. She takes a step back, fixes them with a look that she hopes comes off downright cold.

“How bout we make some more disappear now, feel?” she says as she grabs a brown bag from her other pocket, holds it out. “Fill it.”

She hazards a quick look at Tosha, who's standing with a hand in her jacket pocket, feigning like she's gripping a piece herself, and then adds, “And toss a buck in there while you're at it.”

They roll their eyes but do as she asks, shoving a neat wad of bills into the bag. The taller one moves to hand it to her, but she just nods over at Tosha and then glances around him to see the shorter one inching his hand slowly towards his waist.

“I wouldn't if I were you, motherfucker,” she tells him, and he rolls his eyes before moving his hand up again. She smiles cocky, like she's got this under control and says, “Attaboy. Wouldn't want you to lose anything fucking _precious_ now, would we?”

She glances over to Tosha, gives a short jerk of head that indicates that she should go. She thinks she sees Tosha hesitate, but, if it happens, it's only for a second. They've been doing this too long—are too good—for that kind of shit. Tosha takes off towards the alley, and Kimmy just keeps her gun moving steady between the two corner boys, who glare back at her defiantly.

When she's sure that Tosha's had time to get a safe distance, she backs towards the alley, slowly. She feels for the edge of the row of houses with a hand extended behind her, and, when she reaches it, she takes a deep breath. Then she does the only thing she can do: she lowers her weapon as she darts around the corner, and she runs like hell.

She can hear them start to scramble behind her, but she tries not to focus on it, just keeps running even though it only takes a few seconds for her lungs to start burning (she really needs to quit fucking smoking).

She hears a shot from behind her, then another, and she reaches over her own shoulder, sends a single shot back. She barely lets it slow her down, just rounds the block takes off until she gets to the abandoned she and Tosha agreed to meet at.

“You all right?” Tosha asks, rushing to her as soon as she stumbles in, doubled over and hacking up spittle. “You hurt?”

“Nah,” Kimmy answers when she manages to stop coughing. “Fucking winded, is all.”

Tosha smiles, voice light and joking when she says, “Told your ass to stop smoking,” but Kimmy feels the way her grip tightens on her shoulder, the way the hand that's drifted to her back is pressing a little too firmly.

\---

The hand that's on her back doesn't stop moving, and a few minutes later, when Kimmy catches her breath, they fuck hard and fast and a little desperate up against the wall. The exposed brick digs into Kimmy's back, scratches on every upstroke, but she doesn't care. Shit, she's a little grateful for it.

Afterwards, when they're pressed together on the floor, Kimmy just listens to the sound of their breathing, shifts her head on Tosha's chest so that she can hear her heart beating strong and steady.

\---

 _  
**Summer, 2000**   
_

Kimmy makes reservations as a restaurant down by the harbor because it's been three years and even though Tosha swears that shit doesn't matter to her, it seems like the thing to do.

They get dressed up and drive downtown. Tosha'd suggested just walking towards the monument and catching the 11 bus, but Kimmy had frowned. “Bus ain't very romantic.”

Tosha had raised her eyebrows, tossed back, “Neither is paying twenty-damn-dollars for parking. And it's Saturday night and you know there ain't going to be none on the street.” So they'd compromised, found a cheaper lot near a little up on East Baltimore.

Kimmy holds the door while Tosha gets out, and then nods towards the Block, grins. “We could detour there, you know. If it's romance you're after...”

Tosha smacks her in the shoulder, tells her she's sick, but can't quite contain her smile. She links their arms as they head down Calvert.

They get about a block before it starts to smell a little like ocean, and another before the smell of fish is almost overwhelming.

“What the fuck is that?” Tosha asks, and covers her nose with her forearm.

“Shit, how should I know? Dead fish or something,” Kimmy says, scowling, but the some guy with a camera around his neck and a D.C. ball-cap tells them all excitedly that there's been an algal bloom down in the harbor.

“Worst one in a long time. Killed over a thousand fish!”

The tourist continues on, and Tosha stops abruptly and turns to look at Kimmy, eyebrows raised. “Girl, tell me you did not get outdoor reservations.”

Kimmy shrugs defensively. “What? I wanted the damn view. How the hell was I supposed to know this shit was gonna happen?”

Tosha rolls her eyes and shoots Kimmy a spectacularly annoyed glare that she manages to hold for about ten seconds before she cracks up. Kimmy keeps scowling, but Tosha just prods her. “Come on, you gotta admit it's kind of funny.”

“Fuckin' algae bloom,” Kimmy mutters, shaking her head in disbelief, but it's not long before she's laughing too.

“Fuck this shit,” Tosha says, and links their arms again. “Let's go home. These damn heels are killing me anyway.”

“I'm saying, maybe if you wore something other than those damn Pumas all the time--”

“Yeah, cause nothing's good for running like a motherfucker like three-inch heels, right? Girl, you trying to get my ass killed?”

Kimmy just smirks, then tries to look as lascivious as possible when she says, “Maybe it's a good thing, you know? I can think of other shit I'd rather be doing tonight anyway.”

She waggles her eyebrows, and Tosha just rolls her eyes. “Fucking presumptuous.”

\---

They're careless more than more often these days. The next morning, Kimmy wakes up in Tosha's bed, nudges her until she murmurs a groggy, “Hmm?”

“It's Sunday,” Kimmy reminds her, voice thick with sleep. “You gotta get up.”

Tosha makes a gruff, frustrated noise and rolls over, stays like that for a few moments before pushing herself out of bed and heading for the bathroom. She's barely shut the bedroom door behind her when Kimmy hears her make a muffled but distinctly surprised sound from out in the hallway.

“You scared me,” she hears Tosha say a second later, and then feels herself tense.

“Just wanted to see to it that you were up and ready,” Tosha's mother replies. “Need to leave soon if we're going to make it to the 9 o'clock service.”

Tosha gives a short hum of assent, says something about not taking long to get dressed.

“All right,” her mother says. There's a long pause afterwards, but no sounds of anyone moving through the halls, and Kimmy stays very still, strains to listen. But there's no need, as it turns out, because Tosha's mom raises her voice, calls through the door, “Oh, and Kimmy?”

Shit.

“Yes, ma'am?” she answers, and hopes she doesn't sound as mortified as she feels.

“I'd say it's about time you got dressed and joined us.”

When Tosha gets back, looking as exaggeratedly embarrassed as Kimmy feels, they can't help but dissolve into helpless laughter.

\---

They get more daring with other things, too. They're still subtle—have to be, because when you don't look the picture of brute force, you use the advantages you have. But they're not doing grabs anymore, haven't for awhile. It's guns out every time now, and they're going for stacks.

There're obvious advantages to it: no need to unload product to get cash, for one. More money, for another. It makes it so that they don't have to do it so often, can go a few weeks between jobs without sweating it.

But damned if there aren't less obvious ones, too: the rush that comes with drawing down when it's planned, when she and Tosha have the advantage; the way the cocky looks the corner boys give her when she's flirting with them turn into surprised ones when she's sticking a gun in their faces. The way everything goes off without a hitch every time because they may be more daring, but they're also more careful, more thorough in the detail work.

“Ya got caught slipping,” she tells the two she just robbed as she backs towards the getaway car. She feels that hum of excitement, can already tell that it's going to be a decent haul from the size of the bag Tosha's carrying. And sometimes she just can't help but rub it in a little. “Sorry it had to go down like this, baby, 'cause your ass is cute. But you got got.”

She hits the gas harder than she means to—squealing out isn't exactly subtle, and she hears the way Tosha mutters a curse and shifts back awkwardly as she tries to keep her balance—and drives off with Tosha covering her. She takes the alley for a couple of blocks, then stops, lets Tosha untangle herself from the window and get in the car.

Tosha gives her a look as she shifts the car into gear again.

“What?” she asks, incredulous.

“Cute, huh?” Tosha says, eyebrows raised.

Kimmy rolls her eyes. “Don't even play like you don't know I was joking.”

Tosha smirks, picks up the bag on her lap.

“Besides,” Kimmy adds, smiling cockily. “Can I help it if I got eyes?”

“Motherfucker,” Tosha snorts, and smacks her with the bag.

\---

 **  
_February, '03_   
**

They get caught slipping, too. They're back at the old apartment tower that's serving as a temporary base, leaning over the profits of the latest job, and then there's a gun in their faces. Just like that. One at their backs, too, as it turns out, with none other than motherfucking _Omar_ at the trigger.

They don't move as Omar's boy leans down, collects their money in a bag and then circles around towards the door, gun aimed at them. There's a long moment in which they all just look at each other, and Kimmy has no idea where this is going to go. Omar's not known to be quick on the trigger when he doesn't have to be, but she also knows he ain't been shy about using that sawed-off when he sees the need. She holds her ground, stares back defiantly but doesn't make a move. She can't look, but she guesses Tosha is doing the same.

Finally, Omar breaks into a smile, lowers the barrel just an increment. “Was some nice work back there. How long y'all been at this?”

Kimmy fixes him with her best glare. Neither of them answer.

“Come on, now,” he says, still smiling, voice light, and looks pointedly down at his shotgun. “No time for silence.”

“Fuck you,” she says before she can stop herself. She cringes, but Omar just laughs.

“Now, now. No need for that, darlin'.” He laughs, glances back at his boy. “Baby got some heart, though, don't she?”

He looks back at them. “Tell you what: I like what y'all have got going here. Could use you. You know Butchie?”

Kimmy nods, slowly, skeptically.

“You go down to his place, he'll give you a couple of them stacks back,” he tells them, then cracks another smile. “Call it a signing bonus.”

“And after that?” Kimmy asks, voice still defiant.

“After that, we talk about it.”

Kimmy and Tosha glance at each other, and then back at Omar, who pulls down on the edge of his cap and grins as he and his boy back out the door, weapons still trained on them. “Ladies.”

\---

“You really think we should do this?” Tosha asks her later that night, when they've wound down enough to come at things with cool heads.

Kimmy shrugs. “Shit, for two grand, I feel like we gotta at least hear the man out.” She pauses, looks out the window. “Maybe it'll be better.”

"Yeah,” Tosha says, quietly. “It's just... I like what we got going now, you know?”

“I know,” Kimmy tells her. “But you think we gonna be able to keep that up anyway? When we stepped things up, we was fillin' a niche, feel. With that motherfucker back in town, you really think we're gonna be able to do shit without crossing him all the damn time?”

Tosha sighs. “I know.”

There's a long stretch of silence, and Kimmy stares out at the lights of the city. “Worse things than having your name tied in with Omar, you know.”

“Suppose,” Tosha agrees. “Although tell that to that boy he used to have. You hear about that shit?”

“Yeah, but that little mofo was young, you know? Didn't know what he was doing.” She turns to look at Tosha. “And us? Shit, girl, we already in it.”

Tosha nods, bites her lip for a long moment before smiling slightly. “Odd motherfucker, ain't he?”

Kimmy snorts. “Fuck. You telling me.”

\---  
 ** _  
Spring, '03_**

They got Stump good today, the four of them. Got over a stack each in the split, and went East side for a drink to celebrate.

Now, Kimmy's lying on the mattress in the abandoned they're squatting in at the moment, listening to the rain pelting against the boards and the panes of the windows.

“You awake?” Tosha murmurs from beside her, and gently nudges her shoulder.

“Mmm,” Kimmy says, and rolls over. She reaches out, settles a hand on Tosha's ribs. Even in the darkness, she can see the concern—uncertainty, maybe—on Tosha's face. “What's up?”

Tosha doesn't say anything for a long moment, just strokes her fingers lightly along Kimmy's arm. “Shit ever bother you?”

“What?”

“When it's like... when it's like today, with kids and everything.” Tosha traces a pattern on her shoulder, then shrugs and laughs a little helplessly. “Fuck, I don't know.”

Kimmy considers it, then shrugs back. “Can't say that it does.”

“You serious?” Tosha says, and props herself up on an arm.

“Serious,” Kimmy confirms. “I mean, wasn't like she was no honor student. With her daddy doing what he do... shit, all in the game, you know? Gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Yeah,” Tosha says after a beat. “Yeah, I guess.”

Tosha turns to settle in again, pulling the sheet up tighter around herself. Kimmy rolls over, tries to remember if there was a time when she might have said something different.

\---

 _ **Spring, '04  
**_  
“Yo, you really go to a fucking car dealership?” Tosha asks her as they're driving back from staking out Barksdale's stash house. Her voice is light, amused.

“Fuck yeah,” Kimmy replies, grinning, and Tosha shakes her head.

She stares out the windshield, adds after a beat, “What, like you don't ever think about doing some other shit someday? Being someone different?”

Tosha shrugs, leans her head against the window. “Not really.”

\---

 _  
**Two Days Later**   
_

She knows certain things get burned into people's minds to the point that they can't ever let them go, can't ever forget.

“I got you, baby,” she tells Tosha, and nods for her to run to the street. “I got you.”

And she does. She holds steady when she needs to, even when she can practically feel the bullets whistling past her, gives cover fire so they can get to the car. She and Omar—they hold them back, do what needs to be done. They protect what's theirs. Kimmy always has.

Only this time she fails.

It happens so fast, Tosha getting dropped, but Kimmy sees it like it's in slow motion, feels her own body tense and jerk with the force of it. For a second, something in her gut twists so violently that she thinks maybe she took the shot, that maybe she's the one who should be crumpling down towards the street.

It's only for a second, though, because then she's running towards Tosha, even though it's stupid, dangerous. She does it before she can even think about it, like something has her by the throat, is pulling her forward and barely letting her breathe. All she wants is to lean down, to touch Tosha's neck, her wrist, even though she already knows all she needs to know from the way Tosha's face is frozen, eyes open.

But she fights the urge because she can't let herself be like that, not when she's not shot and this shit isn't over. She turns around just fast enough to hit the sweat-suit-wearing motherfucker who's firing behind her, the one who'd probably firing at Tosha only a moment before. She gets before she can get got—all part of the game. And when the bullet explodes his chest, sends a spray of blood onto his pants, it feels righteous, like vengeance--all in the game.

But then she looks down. Later, she'll think, _This? An accident? A stupid mistake by a scared stick-up boy who never should have been handling a .38 in the first place?_ That's not part of it. That's not supposed to be part of it.

Between shock and Omar pulling at her arm, she doesn't get a good look at the body—at Tosha--but maybe it's worse like that. Her mind fills in the details: the hole in her temple, the blood pooling around her head and meandering towards the gutter, the way her eyes manage to look simultaneously empty and afraid.

She only gets to look for a second, but Kimmy's seen plenty in her day and knows enough to know when she's seeing something that she might never get out from under.

They leave her lying in the streets like a dog, like trash or dead soldiers. There's no choice. Kimmy has to tell herself there's no choice.

\---

She waits a day, goes to see Tosha's family on Sunday morning, just in case.

Tosha's momma is quiet for a long time when Kimmy gives her the news. When she finally shifts, shaking her head, all she says is, “I thought you'd do my girl better than that, Kimmy.”

“It wasn't like that,” she tells her, and almost believes it.

\---

Omar gets back late. Kimmy can feel him looking at her as he shrugs off his overcoat, sets his sawed-off on the table. She doesn't bother to look up.

After a long moment, he stops waiting, just says what he wants to say: “I made sure her people got what they needed to pay for the funeral.”

He stares right at her when he says it, gaze earnest, and she snorts. She wonders how he's expecting her to respond. _Thanks? That was real decent of you?_

She doesn't want to think things like that because she knows they're not true, that that's not really what he's waiting for, and, besides, there's no point to it. But she sees his lip quirk from the corner of her eye and realizes it must be written all over her face anyway.

“It's fair,” he tells her, and then glances down, hesitates.

Finally, he says, “I know I don't gotta tell you you need to stay away from it.”

Kimmy snorts again, keeps her gaze fixed on the spare magazines Dante left out on the table when he stormed off earlier. “No,” she tells him, because it's the truth, even though hearing it out loud makes her feel like something inside of her is dying.

\---

 _  
**Friday**   
_

She sits on the couch, glances down at her disposable cell. 6:10. The viewing started ten minutes ago. She tosses the phone down, sits back and stares at nothing, just lets the minutes tick by and tries not to picture Tosha lying there in a box, alone or, worse, surrounded by nobody but Barksdale's people.

It's completely quiet except for the occasional helicopter or siren, but sometimes the faint sound of the stereo drifts down from upstairs, and Kimmy can't help but wonder if she'll ever be able to stop hating him enough that she can keep getting shit done.

Omar comes in a little while later, shuts the door softly behind him and seems surprised when he rounds the corner to see her sitting there.

“Where you been?” she asks.

“Get some smokes,” he answers, but he doesn't look at her and she doesn't know what to make of the way his throat works when he says it.

\---

 _  
**A week later**   
_

They go East side this time, hit a stash house that's probably connected to Prop Joe's people, but so low on the chain that nobody's going to give a shit one way or another.

There's only two of them--Dante's in the car--matched against a crew of four. Omar's holding off three of them by back wall, and she's on the one who's supposed to be filling up their bag. She's got her gun in one hand, trained on him, and when he spits out a _bitch_ as he tosses the re-up in the sack, she doesn't say anything, just moves it a fraction to the side and squeezes the trigger. The shot is so close that the puff of plaster it sends up settles on his shirt.

"Fuck!" he almost yelps, and grabs at his ear.

She just motions for him to continue. When everything's packed, she backs out without a glance at Omar and heads for the car.

"No swagger from you this time, huh?" Omar notes when they've made it a few blocks down.

Kimmy doesn't say anything, just looks in the bag and starts taking inventory of the haul.

\---

Omar comes in a few weeks—a few jobs—later, yelling about Barksdale's people and his grandmother and his fake fucking cafeteria job. And she gets it. She does. The Sunday morning rule's been around for a long time, and it don't matter how much someone needs to get got or how bad anyone wants to get them: you don't break that shit. You just don't.

But this—the way he's practically foaming at the mouth talking about “Barksdale's got to go” and “This ain't got to end?" She can see it right now, spending her days busting her ass on risky jobs that pay the same as jobs that won't get her ass shot, and for what? So he can get even, get vengeance? Where the fuck is her vengeance? Where's her fucking getting even?

“I'm out,” she tells him, and shrugs when he and Dante look at her, surprised.

“I'm in it for the money,” she tells them, and doesn't think of the wisecracks, the way her heart used to pound when she ran after Tosha in the alleys. There's nothing else to be in it for.


End file.
